Concern spreading over his brow, the sweets seller leaned across his cart to watch the boy. Up close, Batya saw that the man was a simpleton, his tongue too large for his mouth, his round eyes bewildered.

To Batya’s relief, the young attacker crawled to his feet and scrambled away. The small crowd dispersed. The show was over.

The sweets seller turned to fill the tin cup from the earthenware jar shaded under a canvas stretched with three poles.

“You must be so smart to know how to make all these sweets,” Batya said in Spanish.

“The almonds, they are from my family’s orchard.” His eyes were drawn to the ample skin showing above her breasts.

She passed the tips of her fingers lazily down her neck to her cleavage. “And where is that place where this orchard grows almonds?”

He named a village she’d never heard of, adding, “The sugar, too, is from my village. From sugarcanes.” He handed her the cup. His hand shook.

She sipped. “It’s so good. The best ever!” She licked her lips slowly. “What’s your name? I’m Esperanza.”

“Rafael.”

“That’s a good name. In the Bible it means ‘God heals.’”

“It does?” His round eyes grew rounder. She noted the creases in his forehead and the dryness of his skin. His gums were gray with disease. He was older than he’d first looked, like that old man in her shtetl whose simplicity made the worries of the world slide away before they could mark his face.

She fished in her purse for a coin.

“Oh, no.” He waved her coin away. “You are a good woman.”

A good woman. She was warmed by the compliment; no one had ever referred to her as good. “Thank you. You are a good man yourself.” She dropped the coin back in her purse and sipped more. “Is your village far? How do you get there?”

“Every two weeks, my brother comes with a horse to take me back to our mother.” Rafael pointed to the end of the cart, where two long shafts were propped by wood blocks.

She smiled. “I like you. Can we be friends?”

God was on her side, showing her the way. This was how she would get her letter mailed.

Chapter Thirty-One

In the pavilion, Batya sat in rapt attention as Rochel, who had been to the Yiddish theater the night before, regaled the sisters with the details of her adventure. Of all the sisters chosen by Moskowitz to accompany him to the theater, Rochel was the best raconteur. She could reenact the jokes, the singing, even entire scenes.

Batya had never been to the theater, and these reenactments fired her imagination and lit a spark of envy. She was grateful when Moskowitz took her to cafés, but he spread theater outings among his other prostitutes. Even Rochel, who had been invited often, said she didn’t know why he favored her.